Becoming Ron
by K. Knocks
Summary: Sometimes you need to be alone before you can grow into yourself. Here's my take on Ron's brief time spent by himself. Set during DH when Ron leaves Harry and Hermione. WIP. T for mild language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** You know that little span of time where Ron's gone in Deathly Hallows? Well, here's my take on it. Count on three or four chapters, tops.

**Chapter One**

He landed in Merlin-knew-where with a faint _pop._ Immediately, he pushed his wand up his sleeve and stalked forward to take shelter in the crummy-looking pub facing him. By the look of things, he was in a muggle village somewhere in Ireland; the pub was called Carragh's, and the other shops nearby had Irish names, as well. Otherwise, it was indistinguishable from most other muggle villages he had seen. It was just your run-of-the-mill, small village with people milling about as they do in the evenings. Ignoring the lot of them, he shoved his way into the pub. He didn't look for a spot to sit before stomping straight to the bar and sitting with a huff, dropping his bag onto the ground under his stool.

The stool was uncomfortable. The padding must have been ancient or non-existent. The countertop was grimy. The band in the corner was playing some cheap bar tune that set his teeth on edge. He ordered the house brew, and it was crap.

Everything, he concluded, was shit.

_That is a wildly unfair accusation, Ronald._

Ron groaned and dropped his head into his hands, propped his elbows on the counter. He didn't want to hear her voice in his head. Not now. Especially when her voice was always right. Why was she always right? She was so _right_ all the time that his conscience—something else that was always right and often ignored—now spoke to him in her voice. It made escaping her impossible. It made him feel guilty every time he was wrong, which made him want to escape her. He couldn't sulk with her around, couldn't be jealous even when he clearly saw the two of them—

His jaw clenched. No. He had left them at the tent that way he could get away from them and thoughts of the two of them together. He wasn't about to sit there, in some random pub, drinking crap beer and brooding. He had done enough of that in the tent. What he needed to do now was… What? What did he need to do now? He had hardly any money, a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush, nothing to do… He couldn't go home. He would never be able to look his mum in the eye again, or his dad, or Ginny—especially Ginny. She would never understand why he had left his two best friends, the bloke she was practically in love with. She would accuse—silently, with just her eyes—him of abandoning them. She would wish to take his place. She may even be a bit jealous that she hadn't been able to go and he had, thus making her even angrier that he had given up the opportunity to help. She would be disappointed. His parents would be disappointed. Hell, Fred and George would even be disappointed.

Staring into his empty glass, Ron wondered if anyone would understand why he had left. Who would understand his jealousy and sense of uselessness? Harry, like his own brothers and sister, would have told him to suck it up and move on because it was all in his head. They would chalk it up to Ron just being cranky because living in a tent for months on end wasn't his idea of a good time. They would wave it off as being another one of his moments. His father would try, in his way, to reason with him—but he would go down the same road as the rest in due time. His mum would fret and coo at him like he was a child.

Hermione would have gotten it right away, he thought with a frown. Had he ever opened up and said, "Hey, I'm feeling useless," she would have understood. She would have found something for him to do, would have bossed him around a little more; she would have claimed he was being ridiculous, but she would have adjusted to fit his needs just the same. That was what came down to, he realized: he needed to tell her how he was feeling instead of exploding when it all got to be too much. That was easier said than done, of course. He didn't want to have to tell her that he wanted her to rely on him, turn to him first, come to him with some exciting revelation first, choose him first. He also didn't want to tell her how much he, in turn, relied on her and thought to go to her before all others. He didn't want to admit to needing her, especially when it meant he needed her more than she needed him.

"Want another?"

Ron looked up to see the bartender wiping his hands on a dirty rag before settling them onto the counter as he leaned his weight onto them. As much as he wanted to get lost in cheap beer, Ron didn't think he should do that while alone, in an unknown area, with the already unpleasant mood he was in. He shook his head.

"That'll be two bob, then."

Bob? His name was Ron… And two what? Frowning to himself again, he pulled out one of the rectangle things that Hermione said the muggles used as payment. It had a five on it. Looking from it to the bartender, he held it up and hoped it would be acceptable.

"I'll be back with your change," the man said, and Ron breathed out a sigh of relief. After he'd collected three rectangle things, each with a one on it, he pocketed them and grabbed his duffel from the ground. It was then that the enormity of his situation hit him. He had nowhere to go. The little wizard money he did have probably wouldn't be enough for a room for the night at the Leaky, and he had no idea where he could even think to stay without paying. He would just have to try the Leaky Cauldron, then. If it didn't work out, he would go from there.

**o o o o o o o**

As soon as Ron arrived in an alleyway in muggle London, he knew that something wasn't right. There wasn't anything suspicious in the alley that he could see, but his stomach knotted up in a way that told him to go forth carefully. Hiking his bag up his shoulder, he kept to the side of the building as he approached the street corner where he knew he would be able to get a clear view of the Leaky. He kept his wand out as he went, not at all liking the way his stomach was tightening. As he peered around the brick structure, he shifted his wand in his grip. Everything looked fine enough. Cars and people moved at casual or brisk paces, coming and going from wherever.

_Maybe you're just not used to being in the open._ Ever the optimist-yet-logical, Hermione's voice told him what he needed to hear to get his stomach to settle. It wouldn't be far off the mark, anyway. He had hardly been around people other than Harry and Hermione for months, not including the few times they went into small villages for food or news. It was very likely that he was simply uneasy due to the change in custom. Satisfied with that belief, he pushed his wand up his sleeve and moved into the open. He stood in front of the brick building he'd been looking around moments before and waited for the crosswalk do-hickey to change to "walk". When it did, he hurried across the street, not quite trusting the cars to actually stop when they were coming at him so quickly, and went directly to the Leaky.

He had just walked in the door when he felt the hand on his shoulder. Without thinking, he spun and brought his arm up to knock the other person's arm out of the way, letting his wand slip down his other arm as he did so. He caught his wand and had it shoved in the man's face in an instant. The two stood there, Ron with the other backed against the closed door, shrouded in darkness. The only lights in the pub were a few candles at tables with occupants, none of which were paying any attention to the silent scuffle at the door. He had no idea what to do about the man staring at him with wide eyes, but he knew he couldn't just turn around and walk away. The man would probably attack him if he did so. At the same time, he wasn't sure if he could just stun the man and walk away either; the Leaky's owner probably wouldn't be too pleased.

His decision was made for him as soon as the man's eyes flicked to something just over his shoulder and relief eased the worried wrinkles away. Ron ducked just in time for the stunning spell to miss him and hit the man he'd been holding against the door. Hunched over, he saw the man fall and the man's wand slide through his fingers. He grabbed it as he threw himself behind the closest table to get his bearings. The man who had tried stunning him was looking around, apparently confused as to what had just happened. Biting back a pleased grin, Ron whispered a spell and watched as the stunned man went down, his wand falling near his limp form. He silently summoned the other wand to himself and pocketed it with the first.

First night on his own, and he had already taken down two—what he figured were—Snatchers and collected their wands. He was more than a little pleased with his work, but he was even more worried about the fact that he'd been attacked almost immediately. Unfortunately, he didn't have much time to figure out why that was; two men dropping to the ground near the entrance to the pub could not go unnoticed, and the bodies were gaining more attention as word spread toward the back of the pub. From his crouched position in the shadows, Ron could see the bartender or owner or someone coming from behind the bar. It didn't look like he'd be getting a room at the Leaky that night.

Left hand gripping the strap of his bag, right hand clutching his wand, he went straight back out the door that he'd entered not ten minutes prior. He ignored the "Hey, wait!" and dodged traffic to get back to the spot where he had apparated to before the scuffle at the Leaky Cauldron. The way he saw it, he didn't have much say in where he had to go next. He couldn't go to the Burrow, even if he'd wanted to, and now that it was so late, he couldn't go back to Harry and Hermione. They would be in the tent for the rest of the night, then they would leave right away in the morning. Even if he apparated back to the cliffs where they were, he would never be able to find their campsite because of all of Hermione's clever wandwork. For now, he couldn't go back to them. He would, he decided; as soon as he figured out a way to get there, he would go back.

Until that point, he would pay his oldest brother a visit. Bill was probably the only person he could trust to reserve judgment, or at least most judgment, and provide shelter while he planned. He and Fleur lived in a cottage on the outskirts of Tinworth, the perfect place to hide while he figured out how to get back to where he needed to be, and they were separate enough from the rest of the family so that he wouldn't be discovered by other relatives—no matter how friendly and welcome when he wasn't trying to save the world with his best friends.

With a _pop_, he vanished from the alley in London.

**o o o o o o o**

He had never actually been to Shell Cottage before, so he landed a bit off his mark. The walk up the beach wasn't too bad, though, and Ron was far from complaining—possibly a first for him—even though he had initially been walking in the wrong direction. It wasn't until he had been walking for ten minutes that he realized he needed to turn around. By the time he had doubled back and reached his brother's house, it was nearing one in the morning and freezing. All he wanted was a blanket. If Bill decided Ron deserved to sleep outside for disturbing them so late at night—and abandoning his friends—so be it. He just needed a blanket. Or four.

The sand eventually turned into long grass as he climbed the hill to the cottage, the waves kept up their slow rhythm that would have been soothing had his teeth not been chattering. When he finally reached the house, he was tempted to sit down and take a break, but the thought of a warm home and a friendly face made him more eager to mount the stairs to the front door. He did stop for a moment when he reached the top, though—not because he wanted a break, but because he was suddenly scared of his brother's reaction. What if Bill turned him away? He couldn't do that, could he? They were family.

Ron knocked hesitantly. Given that all of the lights were off, however, it was likely that Bill and Fleur were sleeping, and his pathetic attempts at calling attention to the front door were not about to disturb a butterfly. He knocked again, harder, and repeated the action every few seconds until he saw a light turn on upstairs. Then, he waited.

The door opened, and there stood the tallest and oldest Weasley brother—long red hair mussed from sleep, eyes swollen but alert, and wand in one hand. His stern expression turned to one of shock, his jaw dropping and everything, when he realized exactly whom it was he was seeing. "Ron?" Bill had barely muttered the name before his eyes narrowed and the hand that had been on the door moved to his brother's shirtfront. "Who are you?" he demanded. Clearly, he thought the person on his doorstep was an impersonator.

"Bill, it's me. It's Ron."

"Prove it."

Ron rolled his eyes but didn't question it. "Mum tries to cut your hair every time she sees you. We all called you 'Billy' until you were, what, sixteen? Before I left for my first year of school, you sent me a letter saying you were jealous that I got to go school. Uh… Oh, mum always likes to tell the story about the time you set your girlfriend's hair on fire—"

Bill grimaced but managed to laugh around it. "Alright, alright. You're Ron." His face became more serious again, and his hand returned to its place on the door. "Where are Harry and Hermione?"

It was Ron's turn to grimace. "Before I explain, just know that I fully intend on going back…" He trailed off, all at once becoming sheepish, angry and worried—about his friends, about himself. He wondered what he looked like right now. His last shower had probably been two days prior, and that had actually been him washing up with lake water that had been heated in a bucket. His hair was filthy, his clothes—already worn out since they were, funnily enough, Bill's hand-me-downs—were stained and ill-fitting, he was likely to have dirt on his face, and he wouldn't put it past himself to have a very unpleasant expression to go with the dirt.

"Maybe you should come in," Bill said once Ron had gotten lost in thought for a moment. "You look like complete shit and—"

"William! Did I just 'ear you swear? What kind of— Oh! Ron? Iz zat you?"

Merlin's baggy left testicle. Fleur. "Hi, Fleur. Yeah, uh, it's me."

As neat and shimmering as ever, Fleur came to budge Bill out of the way to get a better look at Ron. "You look terrible," she said, her French accent as thick as it had been during the Triwizard Tournament three years ago. "Before you tell us what 'appened, you must wash and sleep, _oui_? We can all talk in ze morning." She reached out to grab Ron's sleeve, thought better of it, and beckoned him inside instead. "Come, come. I will show you to ze bazroom, and zen to your guest room."

Glancing at Bill both for approval and to share in a moment of exasperation, Ron followed Fleur into the cottage. He looked around as he did, finding their home to be as comfortable as it was organized and stylish. Looking at Bill again, he couldn't help but think Bill both fit and didn't fit in his own home. Bill was tall and often wore his hair in a ponytail, he had his ear pierced, and he liked to wear a lot of black—yet his home was all light colors, seashells, and plush furniture. The way he moved in it, though, showed Ron how content his brother was. He may not have matched, but he was happy—Ron would even find, later, that bits of Bill's style could be found mixed in with Fleur's softer and more feminine additions to the home.

"Zis way," Fleur called, drawing Ron's attention back to her as she moved up the stairs. Looking back over his shoulder, he watched Bill veer off toward the kitchen. "Zis is ze bazroom," she said, gesturing to the open doorway at the top of the stairs. The landing spanned to the left and right, two doors on either side of the bathroom—one immediately on either side, then one on each end of the landing. "Zat," she pointed to the door at the left end of the landing, "iz William's and my bedroom, but it iz under construction because we are adding anozer bazroom. So, we are staying zere," she pointed to the door between her and Bill's room, and the bathroom, "until it iz finished. You can 'ave ze room on ze right." This time, she gestured to the room to the right of the bathroom. "All of ze towels are in ze closet in ze bazroom, so 'elp yourself. Leave your clothes in zere when you are finished changing, and I will 'ave zem washed. You 'ave ozer clothes, _oui_?" Barely keeping up, Ron managed to nod before she moved on. "_Bien._ You just wash and get some sleep. We will be ready for you in ze morning." She reached up to pat his cheek before turning around and going back down the stairs. Ron was left staring after her. The woman was far too alert after being woken up in the middle of the night.

Pulling his bag higher onto his shoulder again, he pivoted to find himself face-to-face with the bathroom. Using the tip of his wand for light, he walked in and closed the door behind him before placing his bag on the loo. A moment's rummaging brought him his deluminator from Dumbledore. He clicked it and sent small balls of light soaring into the tiny glass orbs floating around the ceiling. The bathroom was instantly bright, the pale blue walls gleaming and the shower curtain fluttering its gauzy white layers toward him invitingly. He could have wept with happiness. A shower. A real, curtained, comes-with-running-water shower.

He stripped, turned the water on hot, and nearly enjoyed getting scalded when he stepped under the showerhead. Once the water was a more reasonable temperature, he scrubbed himself clean and tried his hardest not to fall asleep where he stand. He had never known water to feel so good in his life. The moment of bliss was short-lived, though. Not long after he finished scrubbing, Ron thought about Hermione and how much she would have loved a hot shower, how much she would have loved the home his brother and sister-in-law had created. His mind moved to Harry next. Harry, his best friend, the Boy Who Lived and probably deserved a hot shower right now more than anyone else. Disgusted with himself, Ron all but threw himself from the shower. He dried quickly and pulled on the only set of pajamas he had thought to pack: a pair of plaid flannel pants and a Chudley Canons t-shirt that was probably ten years old.

As Fleur had instructed, he left his clothes in the bathroom for her to wash. He felt guilty leaving them, so he folded them and left them on the toilet seat… He still felt guilty about it. Walking into the guest room he had been assigned, he felt even worse. It was like staying in a hotel, he figured. The room was simple and clean, everything neutral—pale greens, off-whites, furniture made of drift wood. He didn't see much before his gaze settled on the bed. It was a queen, and it was heaped with pillows and a very comfortable-looking comforter. It made his chest hurt. His friends were sleeping on cots in an old tent with old blankets for warmth. And he was about to sleep on the most comfortable-looking bed he had ever seen.

_No matter what happens tomorrow, I cannot spend another night in this bed,_ he thought. He would give himself this one night—he would admit to being an insensitive, selfish arsehole if it meant one night in that bed. He would hate himself getting into the bed, he would hate himself in his sleep, and he would hate himself when he woke up in the morning. Then he would put it out of his mind. If he was still with Bill and Fleur any of the upcoming nights, he would sleep on the floor with one pillow and one blanket. He was not going to enjoy himself if he could help it.

After this one night.

Feeling sick about the whole thing yet knowing that he simply couldn't do anything about it until the next day, Ron got into the bed and felt his eyes start to water. He didn't cry—not that he would have admitted it if he had—but his eyes did get moist for a minute as he stretched out and wished to be back on his cot. What had he done?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Whoo! Here's Chapter 2. (: I know I said it wouldn't be coming until the first of July, but I finished the edits early and decided to get this up here. Happy Reading!

**Chapter Two**

The rest of Ron's night was spent tossing, turning, staring up at the ceiling, and playing with his Deluminator. When sleep did come, it was for brief, restless intervals. The house was both too quiet and too loud; it made all of the wrong sounds. The same could be said for the house's surroundings: nothing sounded right. He could hear the waves and the wind, the house creaking, and his own breathing. He wanted to hear Harry tossing and turning above him, Hermione flipping pages in her book on the cot across from his, leaves rustling, trees swaying, tent flapping. Those were the sounds he could fall asleep listening to.

As it were, he gave up on sleep around seven in the morning. New sounds joined those of the night: the occasional birdsong, a sizzle, metal tapping metal, someone hushing someone else. Ron smiled slightly and pushed the covers off. If Bill and Fleur were awake, he may as well get up. They would want to know what was going on, and it wasn't as if he could sleep anyway. Using the light peeking around the curtains, he found his bag and a change of clothes. The items didn't look much better than what he'd been wearing the night before… He shrugged. They would understand that he'd been on the run; there was no way he'd be walking around in dress robes. Plus, most of his clothes were back in the tent with Harry and Hermione because he had sort of packed haphazardly.

Ron pulled on the clothes and returned his pajamas to his bag, the bag to its spot near the dresser. He attempted to make his shaggy hair do something neater, but the mirror above the dresser tsked and told him he'd better get his mane cut—and to shave while he was at it. Frowning, he leaned closer to the mirror and examined the scruff lining his face. It'd probably been about a week since he'd shaved, who knows how long since he'd had his hair cut. He looked a right mess. Rather than worry about it, he accepted it and shuffled out of the room.

The kitchen, he found, was just as brightly lit as the rest of the house during the day due to many wide windows. The countertops shone, the round table in the dining area was topped with a cheerful spring of wildflowers, and something was emitting a delicious scent that made Ron's stomach grumble.

As he entered the room, Bill and Fleur turned expectantly. "G'morning," he greeted, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Come on in, Ron. Take a seat." Bill, sitting at the table himself, gestured to the other three seats. Ron did as he was told, and Fleur took that as her cue to head to the stove. "Fleur made you breakfast—eggs, bacon, sausage links and toast, I think."

Fleur hummed in agreement as she fiddled with the knobs on the stove. "You are much too skinny," she said as she turned back, a plate heaped with enough breakfast to feed an army—or Ron. "You will eat all of zis, _oui_?" Ron nodded enthusiastically, his stomach all but clawing itself out of his body in attempts to devour the plate of food. When she placed it down in front of him, he could feel his mouth water. "Go on, eat."

He didn't need to be told twice. Picking up the fork and knife—despite his animal instincts telling him to inhale the entire plate—he did his best to dig in slowly, but he tossed those efforts after the first bite. After living on whatever they could scrounge up, if anything, for months, Ron couldn't hold back when hot, delicious food sat before him. He probably finished it in less than ten minutes, and it was gone all too soon for him. It actually took him a second to comprehend that he had eaten it all. Looking up from his empty plate, he saw his brother and sister-in-law staring at him with a mixture of horror and amusement. The tips of his ears turned red, and he cleared his throat.

"Sorry. I—I guess I was hungry."

Fleur laughed lightly and waved him off as she rose to take his plate to the sink. She ran water over it and returned to sit next to her husband. Bill looked less amused and less horrified now; his face was void of any emotion, a blank slate. Noticing this, Fleur faced Ron with a look that said _You ate, now you speak._ Ron took a deep breath.

"Well, uh… I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here, and— Thank you. For letting me stay, I mean. I didn't have anywhere else to go and I can't go back yet because—"

Bill interrupted. "Slow down. First, you are more than welcome to stay here anytime. Second, go back where? You must realize, we," he gestured between himself and Fleur, "have no idea where you three have been, what you've been up to, how you've been doing. Nothing. Now that you're here, we realize that you probably can't actually tell us much, and that's fine. It would be nice to know why you 'can't go back yet'," he said, using his fingers to make air quotes. "Just tell as much as you can, in some sort of order that way we can keep up."

Nodding, Ron took a minute to backtrack. It had been months since he and his friends had disapparated from Bill and Fleur's wedding reception. What had happened then and how much could he tell them?

"You're right, I can't tell you much." Bill nodded, Fleur's eyebrows drew together. "Most of what's been happening has to be kept a secret—for your protection, for Harry's and Hermione's, for mine."

"Does anyone know you're here?" asked Bill.

Ron shook his head. "No. Most everyone thinks I'm at the Burrow, suffering from a bad case of Spattergoit. Of course, the family knows that's not true, but that's what everyone else outside knows."

"It's a cover, so the school doesn't come looking for you."

He nodded this time. "Right, and Hermione is supposed to be hiding in Australia with her parents. Really, she Obliviated them and sent them there without her," he said, his tone impressed and his insides aching. "Harry is… Well, he doesn't really have a cover story. People make up what they want to, and he lets them. It works for us."

For a few minutes, they sat in silence while Ron tried to figure out what to explain next. He wanted to tell his brother everything that had happened since they had left, that way someone would know, but it wasn't safe to share it all yet.

"Where did you go?" Ron looked to Bill. "After the wedding?

"Grimmauld Place," he replied automatically. Keeping that bit a secret wasn't so important anymore. It wasn't like they could go back there now. "We stayed there for a while, but the place was no longer safe after… Uh. Something happened, Grimmauld Place was and is no longer secure, so…"

"And now?" Fleur cut in. "Where are you zree staying?"

Ron looked down at his hands. They were getting closer and closer to what he didn't want to admit to. He could already see Bill scowling and Fleur looking offended, he could see their welcoming attitudes disappearing with their high opinions of the good he was doing with his friends. "We move every day—every two, at most. Remember dad's tent?" He turned to Bill, who nodded his head. "Yeah, we have that."

"Zat does not sound very safe…"

"Oh, it is. Hermione… She's great with spells. There's no way of finding the campsite unless someone from inside shows up and leads you in."

Bill was frowning now, trying to piece together what ron had said and what he hadn't. "Why are you here, Ron?"

He was still looking down at his hands without seeing them. He was picturing a tear-streaked face and hearing a pleading voice, wondering how he could have left her behind. "I left," he said, looking into Bill's eyes as he did so. "I abandoned my two best friends, and our mission, in the middle of nowhere." His voice cracked, and he glared down at his hands again. All of the words were rushing forward and out before he quite knew what he was saying. "She always goes to him when she figures something out— I get that now. He's the one running the show, we report to him. But I saw them coming back together once and… What could she ever see in me? I'm not a hero, I'm not brilliant; I've got red hair and old clothes and no money to my name—" He cut himself off when he realized he was almost shouting. Another moment had a blush crawling up his neck and along his ears. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. "Clearly, I was out of line by running out on them. I knew it right after I disapparated from the site. I knew it while I had that shit—sorry, Fleur—pint at that crap pub in Ireland. I knew it after I got attacked by two Snatchers at the Leaky. I knew it when I showed up here. I still know it." Once again, he met his brother's eyes, his own filled with a fire of determination Bill had never seen there before. "Like I told you last night, I'm going back. I don't know how, but I will find my way."

Bill and Fleur were staring at him. Neither could mask their surprise at his outburst, or maybe they just didn't try. Ron's brother turned to exchange a look with his wife. Their momentary communication was completely silent, but they must have come to some sort of agreement because Bill nodded and broke the silence.

"How can we help?"

Ron gaped. That had been completely unexpected. "You aren't mad?"

"How can I be? You've obviously been beating yourself up about it; you don't need my help." Bill leaned forward. "Look, we don't know what the three of you are up to, but Dumbledore always made it very clear that you'd have a big role to play down the road. Seeing as you're off gallivanting the forests and what not, I'd say that you've come across that road. That also means the war that's upon us is about to come to a head." He paused, searched Ron's face for something. "Am I right?" When Ron nodded, Bill nodded. "I thought so. That being the case, Fleur and I," he gestured between them, "want to help."

The younger man was no longer gaping at his oldest brother, but he was still surprised. It was true that all of the Weasley kids had been in Gryffindor and that all of them, except for one, tended to jump right into battle mode when the opportunity arose. However, Ron had expected Bill to be angrier, more disappointed. When Bill all but skipped the anger and disappointment, and went straight for solving the problem presented, Ron was thrown off. He had to recover. Mentally grappling around with his options, he ended up just diving in. He had never been one to think before speaking, after all.

"Secrecy is our main priority," he began, referring to himself, Harry and Hermione. "That's why we haven't been checking in at all. We have our cover stories, so if anyone who 'knows' that story saw me walking about, things would obviously get more complicated. It's no secret that the three of us are close. The Ministry, if not some Death eaters, would harass me and everyone somehow related—mum and dad first, Fred and George, Ginny at school, you and Fleur. My point is, I can't be seen. I have to figure out how to get back to Harry and Hermione without wandering around." Bill nodded, so he continued. "That leads me to my next point: getting back. I have no idea how to find them. The spells I was telling you about earlier make us undetectable, untraceable—"

Fleur interrupted. "Does zis make you _entirely _untraceable?"

"Well, yeah, I think so."

"What about ze taboo?" she asked, looking from Ron to Bill, then back to Ron. When the younger of the two stared at her, not comprehending, she frowned with worry. "Zere iz a taboo on you-know-who's name. Saying eet will bring Death Eaters right to you."

Suddenly feeling quite ill, he recalled a time in the not-so-distant past when Death Eaters had seemed to stumble upon them in a coffee shop. They had just left Bill and Fleur's wedding due to the arrival of Death Eaters, had shown up in Muggle London to hide from said Death Eaters, and then they were fighting more Death Eaters in the little coffee shop they'd been regrouping in. All because of one psychopath's name. Looking back, Ron couldn't remember who had said you-know-who's name, but it didn't matter.

"I have to get back to Harry and Hermione," he said, sounding distressed. "They don't know. They can't know—"

"We'll figure it out, Ron. But until then, what should we do?"

"I… I don't know, really." He frowned at the tabletop and fidgeted with the delicate placemat. "There isn't much that you _can_ do. I need to get out of here, do some scouting—"

"What kind of scouting?"

"The kind where I find out as much as I can about what's going on in the wizarding world. We've been stuck on cliffs, or in caves and forests for months without much news. I need to gather information that way this—this _thing_ I'm doing isn't a complete waste." His hands had started to move animatedly, only to be tossed up into the air at the end before dropping into his lap dejectedly. "I left. May as well make use of the fact that I'm here."

Bill and Fleur seemed to understand, both nodded along as he spoke and turned to nod once at each other before Bill leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. "What's your plan, then? You can't just go off and walk into Diagon Alley for some news."

Ron shrugged. "Hadn't quite gotten there, had I? I suppose I'll transfigure a few bits of myself before going…"

His brother frowned and moved to the very end of his chair. "Ron, you can't simply skulk around, waiting for news. What do you need to know, anyway? Fleur and I can get the information you need, or try to, and you can stay here and—"

"Right. I'll sit around in your house while you and your wife put yourselves in danger," he said sarcastically. When Bill made to reply, Ron waved him off. "Sorry, forget I said that. What I'm saying is, I won't sit here while you go and inquire about you-know-who. Can you help? Maybe. I do have some questions you could answer."

"Go ahead, zen," Fleur encouraged.

Ron nodded and scooted his chair closer to the table. "What's going on with the Order? How's Lupin? Last we heard, he was thinking about… Never mind. What about Hogwarts? We know that Snape's headmaster now, but what's going on? Can it be stopped? How's Ginny? Fred? George? Mum and dad? Is Percy still being a prat? What are we going to do if—"

"Stop, stop, _stop." _Bill was waving his hands to get Ron's attention. "The family is fine. Mum is, as you can imagine, constantly in a state of worry about your welfare. She worries about Harry and Hermione, too. She tried to talk Ginny into staying home—" Ron snorted in a _yeah, right_ fashion. "That's what I said. I told her she would have better luck permanently de-gnoming the back garden. Anyway, Ginny's at school. She doesn't write much because the Ministry's been intercepting owls, but she's—"

"Wait," Ron cut in, "isn't she home for holiday?"

The older Weasley brother shook his head. "She could have come home, but she stayed. We don't know for sure, but we think she's involved in some sort of resistance."

Ron both brightened with pride at and frowned with worry over the news. She could take care of herself, he knew, but she was still his little sister.

"I know," Bill said as he watched the emotions play across his brother's face. "Anyway, the rest of the family is fine. The twins are running their shop and making gold, Percy is…" He paused to clear his throat of the disgust he couldn't hide. "Percy is still with the Ministry. Charlie is still in Romania, but I'm sure he'll be home as soon as he sorts things with work. As for the Order, we're still going strong…or, as strong as we were going before you left. We're still fighting, or trying to, but our numbers are…nowhere near what we need to track down, capture, and turn in all of the Death Eaters. What's more, we don't even know who all of them are. Some _are_ and some… Well, let's just say that it's near impossible to figure out who's been Imperiused and who's acting of his own volition."

"Imperiused or not, they should still be rounded up and—"

"Ron, it's not that simple. It's not as if we can just walk up to, say, the Minister of Magic himself and tell him that he's going to be tried for treason. They fight back. People get hurt, _killed_. With our numbers as low as they are, we can't take risks that way. This whole thing is coming to a head. Until that breaking point, we—like you—need to gather information and support. You may remember Hagrid going to talk to the giants two years ago… Similar strategies are in place as we speak—like Remus and the werewolf community, for example. Ah, don't interrupt. I know you're curious about Remus and Tonks. We're all a little concerned, but I believe he has returned to her. That's all I'll say about it." Ron nodded, signaled for him to continue. A part of him wondered if he should have been taking notes. Hermione would have been impressed with notes. He mentally slapped himself. He needed to focus on what Bill was saying. "The Ministry is completely unreliable at this point, as are nearly all news sources. _The Quibbler_ was—and I repeat, _was_—in support of 'The Golden Trio', but Xeno rarely prints anymore. No one is really sure of what's going on. Mum went by with some pies a few weeks back, wanted to visit—really, she was curious as to his sudden lack of rebellion, but she wouldn't tell him so. He wouldn't even let her through the front door. Mum said he was in a right state—dirty hair, rags for clothes, trembling like a madman. My guess is that some of you-know-who's followers got to him, shook him up a bit." Bill shook his head and sighed. "That sort of thing's been happening all over. People are either threatened into silence or hiding, or they're killed. The muggle-borns of the wizard community have to go into hiding, dragging their families with them— It's a miracle we haven't been revealed to the muggles by now." He shook his head again. "Everything is shit, Ron—sorry, Fleur—and we can't do much but sit around and wait it out right now, but we're doing everything we _can_ do."

On a sigh, Ron sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at his scuffed-up watch as he did so. It had was one of the only things he had ever received brand new—not including the things his mum made him or the new wand a few years back. It was the traditional coming-of-age gift for a wizard, the watch, and it served as a reminder to him; it reminded him, now more than ever, of what he was capable of and what others were capable of, and of how time was going to keep on ticking through it all. As he stared in the direction of his watch, his eyes became unfocused. In light of all he had learned or all that had been reiterated, he was once again reminded of the fact that the fate of the world as he—and his friends, his family, and everyone else—knew it was in the hands of three seventeen-year-olds. Two, if he didn't include himself. But that was just it, wasn't it? He had to include himself. He had to stop thinking he wasn't part of the equation. He may have been only one more mind, but three was certainly better than two, and he was harming the chances of ending this whole thing by thinking he wasn't enough.

"I need to go into town this afternoon," he announced as he suddenly rose to his feet.

"What? _Non!_ Ron, it iz Christmas Eve, you must stay!"

He smiled wryly at Fleur, shaking his head. "Time is of the essence, Fleur. I need to get to Diagon Alley—" _Well, Knockturn Alley,_ he corrected silently, "—to talk to a few people. Before you ask, no, you can't do this part for me. I can't tell you what I need to ask about, so there's no point in having you go in my stead." He furrowed his brow in thought, looked down at his feet. In a moment, he was nodding to himself and looking back up. "If you could find a way to contact Ginny up at the school, I would appreciate it. Tell her that she can't tell anyone she heard from us, but we're fine and fighting, and that she needs to make sure everyone else keeps their heads up." Bill and Fleur both nodded, so he went on. "It doesn't need to be done today, but it would be great if it could be done soon, if at all."

"You sound as if you're not coming back.

Blue eyes met similar blue eyes across the cozy kitchen, and Bill saw in Ron's eyes what he would say. "I may not. It depends on the outcome of things tonight. I want to make sure I have all of my gnomes lined up before I go tipping them over," the youngest Weasley boy explained.

Bill got to his feet to approach his brother. They faced each other silently for a few moments before Bill nodded and turned to go upstairs. Fleur was up and standing next to Ron, confused, in an instant, but it only took her husband a minute to return from his bedroom. He stood in front of Ron and Fleur, held out a small leather purse to the former. Ron hesitated only a second before reaching out to accept it. "In case you need to…encourage any tongues," Bill said, gesturing to the purse, "or need anything while you're gone. It's not much, but it's all I have on me right now."

Touched, Ron pocketed the purse with gratitude. Anything was more than he and his friends had been living off of for the past four months. After he pocketed the purse, Bill retreated to the front porch, mumbling something about checking the wards. Fleur and Ron eyed each other for a moment before she smiled a little and patted his cheek. Whereas he could express his gratitude to Bill without words, whatever Fleur was trying to communicate was lost on him. He returned her smile with a weary one of his own; it seemed like the only thing to do.

"'Ow about you take anozer shower while I pack you a lunch?" she suggested, watching him closely.

Ron's smile grew, reaching further into his eyes. He hadn't had a packed lunch in years. "Sounds great, Fleur. Thanks."

While Fleur set about preparing a lunch for him and about four other people, Ron took another quick shower. He didn't feel as bad about it as the night before, and he let himself savor the hot water a little longer. Now that he had some sort of plan, he felt he could enjoy the perks of it just a bit. The shower was still a quick one, and he was dressed and packed and heading down the stairs again within twenty minutes. Fleur was in the kitchen, sitting down with a cup of tea, talking to her husband as he leaned against the kitchen counter. Something he said made her chuckle into her teacup.

"I should be off," said Ron when he walked in. He had his bag slung over his left shoulder, his wand sticking out of the front right pocket of his jeans. "I'm just going to pop into London." He was trying to be casual about it, as if he wasn't taking a huge risk by going out into the world where many people would trade him for a sack of gold.

Bill and Fleur each hugged him, and the latter patted his cheek again. They were supportive, but their eyes were creased with worry lines that Ron could only hope would disappear when this was all over. Until then, he feared, they would have to lean heavily on each other for support and comfort. Ron was glad his brother was happily married and living in the little cottage. Like Bill and Fleur, his mum and dad also had that sense of security, as did Fred and George. He wondered about Ginny—who was watching out for her?—and Percy, the git, who probably thought he was safe in his corner of the Ministry. Charlie, he figured, was the safest out of all of them with his job in Romania, but he still worried.

After a few last thoughts, ideas, reminders and goodbyes, the youngest Weasley brother took his leave. Battling anxiety, he hiked his bag up his shoulder as he descended the steps, the grassy hill, and the slopes of the beach. The sun was almost directly overhead, its rays feeling cold and distant in the winter season. Ron watched the water as he walked along the beach. He didn't know when he'd get another chance to actually watch the water, rather than being on the run and glimpsing it from the tent's entrance; he soaked it in as much as he could.

Before he could let his mind convince him that he should stay there where he was safe, he disapparated.


End file.
